Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
War is Obsolete
by Michael R. Burch

War is obsolete;
even the strange machinery of dread
weeps for the child in the street
who cannot lift her head
to reprimand the Man
who failed to countermand
her soft defeat.

But war is obsolete;
even the cold robotic drone
that flies far overhead
has sense enough to moan
and shudder at her plight
(only men bereft of light
with hearts indurate stone
embrace war's arctic night).

For war is obsolete;
man's tribal gods, long dead,
have fled his awakening sight
while the true Sun, overhead,
has pity on her plight.
O sweet, precipitate Light! —
embrace her, reject the night
that leaves gentle changelings dead.

For each brute ancestor lies
with his totems and his "gods"
in the slavehold of premature night
that awaited him in his tomb;
while Love, the ancestral womb,
still longs to give birth to the Light.
Which child shall we ****** tonight,
or which Ares condemn to the gloom?

Keywords/Tags: war, children, violence, guns, war and peace, destiny,  god, gods, brute, brutality, ******
A free portrait! Imagine that,
At no charge this troglodyte
Decided that I deserved a rendition in pulsing crimson, me!
He effortlessly sliced the curve of my face,
And then holding true to brute form,
Let his fists do the rest of the painting.
In a breath’s thought I fought the idea
That this strong browed man was a fan of
Yves klein, but then he caringly guided my sight
Floor-bound and I noticed that he was a
Monochromatic *******.

Now, I wasn’t expecting Monet,
But in truth the elegance of the lazy red river
Careening down my cheek and neck got my hopes up.

And then further was impressed by his liberalness
With bottomless black crimson
Where he’d only previously flirt with young pinot noir
As he took a break to wash and massage his stained hands
I clutched at the hope that perhaps he was done with the
Onslaught with such blunt tools,
As such methods could ruin the whole piece
Unfortunately, he returned
And his care for each swipe was becoming more

More impassioned, but less precise,
I asked if he perhaps needed a second break?
Perhaps I could assist him,
I wanted to give it a try myself, but my hands were
Tied.

In vain,
I tried to tell him that,
Perhaps,
His bearish skills and appearance,
Would be better suited to a life of leather, whips, and Oedipus Complexes,
But his response was,
Cutting.

You should never laugh at an artist
Especially the bad ones
Because then their work some how finds a way to get worse


I asked if he’d learned how to work from his father,
And whether his father had worked him in any
Other
Manner, and that’s when I became dizzy
I think.
Apparently struck a nerve.
Wilkes Arnold Apr 2016
One feverishly feigned embrace
And struck with hand, dagger graced
Though the votive venial
It precipitated the coup de grace

Ignorant stood captivated,
Discourse evaporated
As conspirators followed suit
Silence serenaded the orchestrated,
Symphony of treachery accentuated by sovereignty's strikes, resolute

Although he knew the fate awaited
And pain he could not substitute
The fight he would not forsake, and so suffered mute
Until his soul was devastated by the visage venerated...
The coda extricated,
"Et tu, Brute?"
I've been trying make this work
tell me what you think
Beryl Lao Jul 2015
I’m in my jammies
Gah! I’m such a brute
When did I become
This disgraceful
This overbearing?

I am not
No longer
A lady of poise
Dysfunctional lifestyle
I can’t.
The noise!

My god
I’m a disgrace
I can’t even cook.
My god, I can’t -
No longer
Finish a book

I’m so annoyed
Ah so annoyed!
When did I let
Myself go
When did I stop
Putting on a show

Is this the real me?
I can’t recognise
Anymore
She’s long gone by now
Who I was before

Sorry I can’t remember
They say our cells replenish
Each year
And for that
My graceful self
I no longer hear

Maybe I was meant to be like this
A *** bellied pig
Well I feel like I am
With a stomach
So big

No, I’m not pregnant
Although I wish I were
So that I may have a reason
For overeating
Oversleeping and sneezing
On cat fur

A grumpy old woman
I wish I was
Instead I’m a disgrace
To all nineteen year old graduates
Of top universities
That has

Fostered our minds
Stuffed it
With ideas that conjure
All the wrong things
Deemed right;
All the good – obscure.

My question to
My disgraceful self
Is when do I pick her up or -
If someone will ever help?

It’s okay if they don’t
It’s okay if they’re disguted
I too am
But maybe
Like in university
We can adjust it.

But as of now I’m fine
No thank you
I’m okay
The couch
The ice cream
And watching TV all day

I’ll pick myself up
Eventually
I’m sure
This house
The people in it
They know that
For sure.
Pffft!!! I can't stop laughing at myself as I'm writing it right now.
I'm literally wearing my jammies as of this day... at 2:34 PM in the afternoon. I'm such a slug.

— The End —